


Night is Drawing Nigh

by debit



Category: Of Mice and Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debit/pseuds/debit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George and Slim go get that drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night is Drawing Nigh

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written March 26, 2001.
> 
> This will make no sense at all if you have not read the book, or seen the movie version. If you have not, I suggest you do both. The book is short and a very fast read. And the version done by Gary Sinise (who also played George) is breathtakingly beautiful.

What makes loneliness an anguish  
Is not that I have no one to share my burden,  
But this:  
I have only my own burden to bear.

\--Dag Hammarskjöld

 

Night. The deputy sheriff, Al Wilts, has come and gone, all his questions answered to everyone's satisfaction. It was decided that justice had been done, quickly and decisively.

Even Curley, after blustering and shouting, had given in to Wilts' decision when Slim leveled a hard look at him and told him to see to his wife. Judging by the noises from the main house, he had drunk and drunk hard, smashing records and furniture before there was a resounding slap and a shout from his father. Then there was silence.

The rest of the crew had retired to the bunkhouse, subdued as well by Slim's stern demeanor.

Curley's wife was gone, taken by the sheriff. There is only a small depression in the hay where she had lain. Lennie's pup is a small, lifeless bundle of cream colored fur in the corner. The bitch nosed it once, whined, then went back to her litter.

The barn was dark and quiet, except for soft grunting noises as the pups nursed and the occasional stomp or sigh from the horses. The still air was full of the sweet smell of hay and the lower ammonia and apple smell of horse piss.

George and Slim sat side by side in the hay, shoulders barely touching. Slim's whiskey was almost gone yet they had barely said a word since they had returned. Slim silently handed George the bottle and George drank.

He hadn't cried, not once. Men don't cry, or at least, not in front of other men. Candy hadn't cried for his dog, not so as you could see it anyway.

George drank deeply, then passed the bottle back to Slim.

Slim also drank, then wiped his mouth before asking, "What are you going to do now?"

"That sheriff, Wilt, told me not to leave town. Do you think he'll-"

"No," Slim said strongly. Then quietly, "No. It needed doing. Everyone knows that."

"He wasn't a dog," George said strongly.

"No, I reckon he wasn't."

"He was a kid. A big, god damned kid. He was mine. Mine to take care of, to look out for. To protect."

"I know."

"I shouldn't have."

"You did what you had to."

"Ain't no man who should ever have to do that, Slim."

"You did what you had to do, George," Slim repeated firmly. He put an arm around George's shoulders and squeezed.

Then the tears came. Hot, hard and shameful. Unstoppable.

George hung his head and let them come. He turned his head away, ashamed, but Slim shushed him. He felt his hard, work coarse hands slide over his cheek, let them press his head against Slim's shoulder.

Slim crooned soothing nonsense words in his hair, like he was one of the horses acting up in the harness. "Easy now. Hush. It's gonna be okay."

And George wept. Wept for Lennie, wept for their never to be realized dream, for the years that stretched ahead of him, alone, aimless, endless. His hand, the hand that held the gun, reached out and gathered a fistful of denim and held it tight. He could still feel the weight of the gun, could still feel the kick when he'd fired and he wept harder.

The hay rustled softly and sweetly as Slim gathered him closer, pressed his lips to his forehead and murmured, "It's gonna be okay."

No one had ever kissed him before. He'd never had a sweetheart. On the few occasions he'd had the money to visit the two dollar whores, they never went beyond pulling up their dresses and parting their legs.

Slim smelled of horses, sweat and the strong liniment he rubbed on the mules. He tasted like whiskey and tobacco. Slim's hands, strong and capable, cradled his skull, rubbed his back, slid under his shirt and pressed against his heart.

George suddenly became miserably aware of his erection pressing against Slim's leg and tried to curl away, hiding it as ineffectually as Lennie had hidden the puppy.

"Shush now," Slim whispered. "Just hush," he said soft and low and pulled George back to him, kissed him again.

Later they lay quietly. The bitch licked her pups. The halter chains rattled as the horses shifted in their sleep.

"What are you going to do?" Slim gently asked once more.

George rested his hand, his right hand, on Slim's chest and could only feel his steady heartbeat.

"Stick around, I guess."


End file.
